


atlas would shrug

by angelozfell



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Community: goodomens100, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelozfell/pseuds/angelozfell
Summary: we've all read Good Omens, haven't we? imagined a world where good and bad worked together to ensure immediate destruction, witnessed Adam's birth and ultimate sacrifice, loved aziraphale, and crowley, and newt, and anathema, and many others as characters who lived, and allowed others to live longer.imagine, however, if the universe had not been so kind to them. imagine a twisted version of events; the plan, perhaps, wasn't so ineffable after all. maybe crowley died instead of aziraphale. maybe gabriel and beez understood. the universe is cold, and harsh, and like playing poker in a pitch-dark room with the dealer who doesn't tell you anything and smiles all the time, it is open to millions of possibilities, some convoluted. some glorious. some vile.atlas would shrug- as crowley and aziraphale hold the weight of the world on their shoulders and as adam threatens to destroy it. he would shrug, in utter disdain; for one holding the sky for eternity, seeing this series of events, he would shrug.(in summary: this story starts with the last day of the world, just after crowley and aziraphale had an argument and the angel forgave the demon. it ends, as all stories will, with forgiveness.)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. hate the sin, love the sinner

Gabriel sipped his coffee slowly, gazing wistfully at the crimson skyline tainting the clouds.

The end was nigh. He grimaced at the bitter concoction pooling in his stomach. New York delis, he cursed. The end of the world, and they were still selling watered-down coffee. What good would the remainder do?

‘Gabriel!’ He choked on his drink. “Everything’s in order. Ready whenever you are.” there was a certain timbre to this voice that identified it as female and pleased. ‘Excellent!’ he miracled away the coffee, and clapped his hands.

‘Let’s end the world.’

All around them, haloes dimmed.

\------------

Leaves fell.

One by one…

Crowley idly watched his wilting begonia droop further and further, tapping his fingers on the desk.

They would be here soon. Hastur and Ligur had absolutely no sense of subtlety.

Crowley knew that while he had committed treason, and was not inclined to say so, not to Aziraphale, not even to himself, that he probably won’t even try his best to go out with a bang. Go out with style, he said to himself throughout the centuries. At the church with back-stabbing Nazis in the early forties. At the Gaelic wars.

What was the point, anyway? Crowley was immortal, meaning he had been around since the beginning of time, and wasn’t going to leave anytime soon. He had spent much of those six thousand years enjoying everything humanity could offer.

If life was about to end, for him, and, possibly, for eight billion humans and an angel, in two hours, that would matter a little less.

Why care about the end when stuff in the beginning and middle wasn’t going to last?

The begonias had wilted completely, leaving a sad lonely pile of leaves at its feet. Crowley snapped out of it.

The clouds rolled back, black and grey. A storm was coming. Or perhaps Crowley had brought it?

The door downstairs crashed open, accompanied by the sounds of several people falling to the floor in heavy thumps.

Crowley got up, stalked towards the Mona Lisa painting, and opened it to reveal a safe. He spun the dial to 4-0-0-4, the year he had slithered onto this stupid, beautiful planet, when it was all gleaming and new.

Rain fell, dimming the sky. Crowley flicked off a bead of sweat as he gingerly took out the tartan flask, the bucket, the heavy-duty PVC gloves, and the pair of metal tongs.

There was another crash, followed by what sounded like the shuffling footsteps of two angry, murderous demons, which was most certainly what it was.

The tartan flask seemed to mock him. Damn it, Aziraphale, Crowley scowled, pouring its contents into the bucket. The world’s about to end and you want to end it on such a low note?

He opened the door to his apartment several inches, balancing the bucket on the edge of the door. His pulse quickened and, if he had taken off his glasses and looked at the mirror to his left, he would have seen his immensely magnified pupils, widened by stress and fear, the streaks of black in the middle of them thinner than ever before.

‘Crowley?’ ligur’s voice, menacing and low, enunciated by the thundering rain all around them, grew louder and louder. ‘Crooowwwwleeyyyyy…’

Crowley glanced over at the small succulent by his desk. Aziraphale had given it to him, several years ago, and it was blooming. The angel was adamant that Crowley had a succulent (‘you can’t just only have houseplants!’) on that one fateful May afternoon a few years back, when he stopped by to let him know about his assignment in Japan, and he wouldn’t be back until after a year. Crowley remembered the angel’s hands briefly touching his, as he passed the tender plant over, and he blushed and almost dropped it. And he laughed…

He smiled. The end of him, possibly, if his plan did not work, if he was sentenced to the deepest pit of hell for eternity, if he was tortured far beyond hope for redemption, would at least be a bit better with memory.

‘We only want a word with you…’

Crowley hurriedly peeled off his gloves, grabbing the green plant mister sitting by the plants, and sinking into his leather armchair, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

‘In here!’

Hastur’s gaze fell onto Crowley, visible from outside his apartment through the open door.

And then up onto the bucket, teetering gently on the edge.

Ligur hadn’t noticed the bucket yet. He stalked, straight towards the door, pulling it open, as Hastur hung back, watching in anticipation. He had never seen a demon rendered extinct by holy water. Now was an interesting opportunity to find out.

The bucket tipped, holy water spilling, drenching, melting the squat demon as he shrieked and screamed, flailing his arms, leaving behind a small pile of clothes on the floor.

Hastur’s mouth formed an ‘o’ as he winced. It was worse than he’d expected.

Crowley’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. Bile rose in his throat, as he saw Ligur, more and more of his smirking face and cold eyes revealed as the door swung open, not looking the least bit surprised, and more…

entertained?

Hastur clapped, his smirk morthing into mock impression as he surveyed the handful of black sludge which was once a demon. His claps echoed loudly in the silent hallways as he carefully stepped over Ligur’s remains; he stopped, gazing at the quivering demon at the other side of the room.

‘Where’d you get holy water?’

‘None of your business.’ Crowley lept up from his chair, holding the plant mister in front of him like a white-hot poker. His hands trembled, as the rain fell harder than ever.

Hastur rolled his eyes as he snapped his fingers, destroying the plant mister, sending cold water all over Crowley’s shoes and pants.

‘Now, come quietly…’ Hastur was cut off by the ringing ansaphone. Despite being in the state of absolute anxiety, Crowley, having lived in England for hundreds of years, and was inclined to act English, quickly grabbed the phone, saying, ‘Hallo?’

‘Crowley! I know where the-’ ‘yeah, it’s not a good time. Got an old friend here.’ Crowley slammed the phone back down and wondered what Aziraphale wanted.

‘Come quietly… you don’t want any harm to come to that boyfriend of yours, don’t you?’ Crowley whipped his head back, his sharp features twisted and contorted, all fear forgotten, anger boiling in him, sending veins blazing… he spoke with an effort of trying to speak, and not raze the house to the ground at the same time. He had forgotten to breathe quite a while ago.

‘He is not my boyfriend.’ his voice cracked at the last word, and a thought crept insidiously into his mind, something he had heard and wept and stared into ceilings for countless hours at a time with, he doesn't love you. You cannot have him.

Beside him, a window shattered, rain streaming in, spilling onto the marble floor.

The sudden fear that had seized him gripped him tighter and tighter, as Crowley recalled every moment he had spent with Aziraphale. How, Crowley’s head throbbed as he thought, could he not have thought that perhaps, heaven and hell had been watching them both?

‘Time to go.’ Hastur’s eyes gleamed with menace, pupils widening, till all Crowley could see was black.

An idea shot into Crowley’s panicked mind… Crowley considered it.

What the hell.

‘W-wait!’ Crowley picked up his phone, dialing in a number, his number, as he tried to summon his usual swagger. He tried to smile, and almost passed out at the effort; the anger and fear radiating off him in shockwaves could pull down the house on both of them and discorporate them both, for the past few minutes all he could do was try and cage his emotions, something he was very familiar with. Doing anything else might absolutely exhaust him.

Crowley was feeling rather light-headed. Hastur gazed at him in contempt. ‘What?’

‘Before you make a fool of yourself, there is something very important that you should know.’

‘What?’

‘Hastur! You’ve passed the test. You’re ready to start playing with the big boys.’

‘Have you gone mad?’

The rain was ceasing a little bit.

‘Nope. Don’t you understand? This was a test. The Lords of Hell had to know that you were trustworthy before we gave you command of the legions of the damned in the war ahead.’ Hastur was blurring in front of him.

‘You’re mad,’ Hastur spat, but his certainty shaken all the same.

His number rang, one time…

‘No, look! Here, I'll prove it to you. I’m calling the Dark Council.’

Two times…

‘You’re calling the Dark Council?’ Hastur’s eyes widened.

Three times…

‘Yes, and they say…’

Crowley breathed deeply and quickly, as he rearranged matter and time.

‘SO LONG, SUCKER!’ he stuck his tongue out at the duke of hell, disappearing and entering his phone and the electricity line.

Behind him, or more accurately around him, Hastur snarled. He snapped his fingers, sending the flat ablaze, as heat stung the apartment and fire took the oxygen, the foundations, the plants, Hastur pounced after him.

\-----------------

Aziraphale scowled as he yelled over Crowley’s voicemail message, ‘i know where the Antichrist is! Stop making noises I-’ ‘bEE EEE EEP’ ‘Crowley!! Can you hear me?’ ‘Please leave your message after the tone.’ ‘who are you? Could you please put Crowley on?’ and was then left with dead silence.

He turned his face away from the telephone and yelled, ‘Bugger!’ It was the first time he’d sworn in six thousand years.

‘Awae wi’ ye, ye spawn of hell!’

Aziraphale dropped the telephone as he turned to face a furious, balding old man, wearing an old mackintosh and, Aziraphale noticed with horror, dripping all over the floor, onto some of the old books.

The blue ring on the floor was still glowing, drawing heat from the air all around it.

‘Seargent Shadwell?’ said Aziraphale, incredulously.

‘I’ll have ye, ye evil bastard!’ Shadwell shouted, advancing on him. ‘I ken what ye be about, comin’ up here and seducin’ wimmen to do yer evil will!’

The angel shook his head and took a deep breath. The air, cold and sharp, seared in his lungs.

He snapped his fingers. A look of calm settled onto Shadwell’s face, as he looked about the bookshop, confused. What was he doing in a bookshop?

The angel steered the confused witchfinder out of the bookshop, slamming the door behind him.

Shadwell’s stomach grumbled. Perhaps I'll have some condensed milk, he thought, as he began the slow march back home, blissfully unaware of the extraordinary occurrences that had just happened.

\--------

hell was hot, and stuffy, and full of demons. One could describe it as a usual office space, but what a usual office space would not have would be the hellhounds, or the lights that always flickered and buzzed, regardless of how many times they changed it, or the leaky pipes.

It was the last place that Crowley wanted to be in. Crowley, throughout the centuries, had ceased every single possible reason that could result in him going back to hell. While he had been giving commendations for many horrifying things that the humans had thought of, completely without demonic intervention, he wasn’t really all that interested in tempting.

Humans were completely fine thinking of terrible things to make everyone else’s lives miserable without demonic intervention. Crowley had designed the M25, a faulty roadway circling england, and had had a hand in designing claw machines, but they never really lived up to what terrors the human mind could come up with.


	2. something eldritch peeked through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're still here? thanks, it means lots to me. have a glorious day.  
> p.s THERE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE FOOTNOTES!! i wrote several footnotes. now they'll never see the light of day. those footnotes contained the answer to the universe. What Will I Do Now? Go Batshit Crazy. signs point to yes.

Two boys, a girl, and a dog, watched in mute horror as something that resembled a boy, but now had black flames licking every inch of him, had eyes that glowed with the fires of creation, soared and screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Something eldritch was peeking through.

Dog squealed, and barked at his master, who was now soaring in the air, listening to no one but the voices inside his head, and the small spark of hell still left in him was extinguished.

Pepper bowed her head, and started to sob.

\------------

‘Ow!’

Newt sucked at his finger as a card he dropped a card onto the floor. It gleamed red, then white, then back to brown.

‘What?’ Anathema screamed, as her train of thought was derailed. She was searching for the right card, the card that had important information for the hour ahead. It was not 2782. Nor 317, nor...

‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’ Newt stared at the card on the floor, and picked it up again. ‘The card stinged a bit…’ Anathema was no longer listening.

Newt read it. On it, were the words:

Prophecy 1879:  
And the day shalle come,  
The red-haired shalle run, red haired = scots? (E. A. Device, 1939)  
The black-eyed shalle followe,  
Do not run,  
Soon ye will be aflayme. 1894 olympics? (r.f. 2110)

‘Huh.’  
\--------------

Miles away, Crowley rushed and danced through a cacophany of lights. Even while he was on the run and could possibly get discorporated soon, he couldn’t help but appreciate the wonder which was the telephone system.

‘CROWLEY!’

Hastur was four or five inches behind him, but given their extremely small sizes, it was a very comfortable lead. ‘CROWLEY! YOU BASTARD! DON’T TRY TO RUN-’

He heard a ring. He took a nosedive-

‘WHEREVER YOU COME OUT, I’LL COME OUT TOO!’

Two rings- Crowley squeezed his eyes shut-

‘YOU WON’T GET AWAY!’

Three rings- Crowley stopped, and watched Hastur rush past him in a flurry of light and sound.

He re-materialized in the middle of an inferno. He stumbled and fell- Crowley choked as the flames licked, higher and higher, stealing every breath from his lungs, searing his skin, searching and tearing for more to steal-

‘WHA- YOU BLOODY SNAKE!’ Crowley heard, distantly, the ansaphone beep and screech- all Crowley could see was blood, and fire, his glasses had melted into a puddle of burning plastic, the building crumbled slightly as the foundations sagged and broke. and then he saw nothing, inky blackness torn from the fabric of the universe… distant lights that could have been stars, or something else entirely.

It had stopped raining.

\-----------

Aziraphale paused and rubbed the sides of his forehead.

Very well- if Crowley was busy, he’d go over himself. He wished, for the first time in his life, that he owned a Nokia.

The rain had stopped, anyway.

Grabbing his umbrella, the angel left the bookshop, hailed a cab, and sat in sullen silence as the car sloughed through traffic.

\---------------

He plummeted.

Down and down and down…

Where the bloody heaven am I?

Deep down in the leather jacket of his soul, Crowley knew Armegeddon was coming. And billions would soon be dead.

He might never see Aziraphale again.

The winds shifted as Crowley laughed and laughed and laughed.

\---------------

Crowley was vaguely aware of the screeching and static. The darkness and flickering lights. Closing his eyes, he uttered the familiar phrase which he had done so, many times before: ‘  
παραιτήθηκα και έφυγα, πεσμένα και ελεύθερα…’

Immediately the lights and sounds rushed, becoming louder and brighter and harsher, suffocating Crowley.

 _AGH_! He gasped, materialising in hell, his head pounding.

‘CROWLEY!’

Crowley turned to his right, his gaze falling on the scowling demon. Ah, hi, Dagon. Crowley smiled a bright and brittle grin. How are you?

‘Where have you been? Armegeddon’s about to start, and here you are, late for the end of times.’

Around them, demons rushed past, some carrying swords, others holding fistfuls of hellfire. Hellhounds howled and screeched as they tried to break free of their cages. Crowley tried to focus on Dagon.

 _Or are you just pleased to see me?_ Crowley tried to smile, forcing his face muscles to work, to, perhaps, conceal his terror in a facade of nonchalance. He failed miserably. _Anyway, i still have some business back on Earth-_

‘Where the heaven is your body? What have you done with it?’ Dagon roared, cutting Crowley off, her eyes glowing a dull yellow. She had had a very hard day getting thousands of demons organised, and Crowley was the last thing she needed.

Crowley looked down at a puddle on the floor. His distorted reflection rippled across the surface as he stared at his shimmering hands.

With a jolt, he realised he was discorporated, but more importantly, he didn’t have his glasses on. He fought back the feeling of growing unease; he always wore his sunglasses, even in hell, the only time he ever took them off was when he was with Aziraphale.

_Aziraphale!_

_Oh for God’s- for Satan’s- for somebody’s sake!_ Crowley gasped, turning hurriedly to Dagon. _Dagon, i- look, i gotta go- i need to get back to someone-_

The air shifted, turning warm. Humid. Stifling. Dagon grabbed Crowley by the collar and shoved him into the nearest wall, and screamed, ‘YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A DEMON!’

‘YOU SHOW UP TO ARMEGEDDON, LATE, WITHOUT A BODY-’

Around them, demons rushed past, barely batting an eye at the scene. Everything turned a thousand times louder, his head seared, he couldn’t breathe- he squeezed his eyes shut, letting every word Dagon screamed and swore and spat pound down on him, again and again-

Back in the crowded greenhouse of his mind, Crowley searched for something. Anything. That could keep him afloat, allow him to come back to reality- he clenched his fists as he searched for something to focus on, something that could allow him to remember, remember, remember- anything, besides the terrifying tirade Dagon was torturing him with-

And then he remembered. That lovely Sunday, six years ago. Warlock was playing in the garden, Crowley saw Aziraphale, doing a terrible job at fertilising the roses- she waved at him, and he smiled-

Crowley’s eyes flew open. Dagon’s eyes were mere inches from his, her fists milimetres from his throat.

He smirked.

_Thanks, Dagon._

Dagon growled. A low growl, that starts in one’s throat and ends up in another. If Crowley had a heart, it would have been pounding.

Thank hell he didn’t.

_m’not going to fight. Save your breath. I’m going back to Earth._

Her grip turned to steel as her voice rose. Her breath grew hotter and hotter, Crowley’s figure shimmered rapidly, she shrieked, ‘WITHOUT A BODY? I KNEW YOU WERE FOOLISH, CROWLEY, BUT-

 _could always possess someone, dagon. Ciao!_ The demon smirked and disappeared.

What once held the ghostly figure of a fallen angel, was now empty space. The puddles near Dagon’s feet evaporated, as she glowed, hotter and hotter, roaring guttural shrieks- and hell became a little more broken.

\---------

‘We need to get going now,’ Anathema said, struggling to put on her shoes with one hand, the other holding the large box of notecards. ‘Adam doesn’t live very far.’

Newt pulled on his socks and shoes, and got up to hold the door open for her. A question crept into his mind.

‘Anathema?’ ‘Yes?’

‘When we do find Adam…’ Newt swallowed. ‘What do we do?’

Anathema’s eyes flicked downwards; Newt saw something in her face that he’d never seen before, for the last few hours that he’d known her. Doubt.

Anathema opened her mouth to say something, but never got to say it; the hurricane had come into its prime, sweeping the witch and disgraced engineer up into the air.


	3. only twenty-one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi- aziraphale's singing Hozier's 'From Eden'. It's ineffably wonderful, go check it out!

The car chugged past shops and apartments. Aziraphale leaned his head against the cold window.

The driver snuck a glance at him through the mirror. ‘You all right, sir?’ he asked, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He turned around, and saw him abruptly get out of the car and slam the door.

Rolling down the window hurriedly and calling out to him, ‘Wait! Sir! You need to pay me- oh my…’

Flames licked the pavement, scorching the tires. The driver’s horrified gaze travelled up from the blazing pavement, to the broken, melting glass windows, to the firefighters darting around with hoses, to his former passenger running into the inferno.

He sat back, in bleak acceptance, wondering what had happened to the world he used to understand.

\-----------

He’d seen the burning of the Library of Alexandria. And the Spanish Inquisition. He had witnessed every horrifying thing that man had executed, and was always surprised when humans came up with a brand new way to make everyone’s lives much worse.

The thing all these events had in common were, they were almost always orchestrated by both heaven and hell.

The thing different about this event was, heavenly interference had arrived too late.

\-----------

Aziraphale was barely aware of the blood roaring in his ears. He stormed through the flaming flat, screaming, screaming something that he couldn’t quite remember.

He did remember, however, the small pile of clothes on the ground, the puddle of holy water steaming near it. He remembered a stream of water from a hose unexpectedly hitting him, sending him falling to the ash-blackened floor. He remembered cursing the ineffable plan, and himself, and all the hosts of heaven and hell.

Did he leave? He must have. Somewhere in his subconscious, a tiny voice was yelling at him to get up, leave, stop the end of the world.

The world, his world, had already ended.

And yet, the angel walked out of the flat, his eyes glowing in a way that wasn’t before.

He let his legs carry him, somewhere, as the thoughts in his mind went quieter and quieter, as though a rheostat had turned the noise down… he stumbled into a bar and drank and drank, as though the only thing that could fill the terrible void was alcohol.

\-------------

‘NEWT, HOLD ON!’ Anathema screamed, her hair whipping around her face as she grasped the door handle like a lifeline.

The wind howled and roared, holding the bubble of the world in its grasp; Anathema and Newt were lifted off their feet and were now swooping airborne in the air, the only thing saving them was Anathema’s tight grip.

‘THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT I’M TRYING TO DO!’ Newt floundered, almost losing his grip on her hand. Even in the hurricane, he was still incredibly aware that he was holding her hand. Purely because not doing so would result in a messy, painful death.

But still.

‘NEWT- NEWT, IN A FEW SECONDS’ the winds grew stronger than ever- ‘THE HURRICANE WILL STOP BRIEFLY, AND WHEN THAT HAPPENS WE NEED TO GO INSIDE-’ the winds ceased abruptly, throwing Newt and Anthema down to the ground.

He groaned; she was already on her feet, pulling him up and into the house- the door barely slammed shut when the hurricane started thundering again.

The witch and witchfinder flung themselves onto the ground, in between the bed and the cabinets. Around them, the noise was almost deafening; the raging storm, the merry tinkle of breaking glass, the pots of plants and uprooted trees rendered airborne by the unforgiving winds.

Newt panted, his heart beating within his chest seemed to come alive inside him, smashing and hurting. ‘DOES AGNES SAY WHAT-WHAT WE NEED TO DO NEXT?’

Anathema, huddled next to him, quickly flung out a hand, gripping a yellowing card tightly and giving it to Newt. The cards spun and danced around them.

‘IT- IT SAYS-’ Newt paused- ‘REACHE OUT TO ONE ANOTHER!’

Immediately Newt’s mind thronged with all his lost dreams, as the sky poured outside and his mind tore within- he’d never gotten a parking ticket- he’d never eaten thai food- he’d never… never robbed a bank…

Anathema watched him, her face blank and unfeeling; she wasn’t looking at him, more like through him.

Newt started to laugh- and cry, tears blurring his vision- and hysterically, he recounted everything to Anathema, everything he’d never done- and now the world was ending- and he was only twenty-one-

They held each other tightly, their hearts pumping faster and faster in unison… it occurred to Newt, suddenly, in his frenzied state of mind- that he had never intended to find a witch, and yet…

A witch had found him instead.

They sat in terrible silence that drowned out even the crashes and stabs of lightning piercing the air, denying the end to come, and regretting the beginnings which had never begun.

\--------------

‘Honey, you’re familiar like my mirror years ago…’

An hour had passed. Aziraphale’s voice echoed dismally through the bar. The low hum of noise and chatter in the background filled his empty mind, like radio static would in a sunken ship.

‘idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword-’ his voice cracked. He swiped at his eyes, ignoring the tears trickling down his cheeks.

His voice, once rich and free, which once had sang lullabies for children, roared promises of freedom and justice at bitter angels, whispered sweet tart loves to Crowley on park benches, restaurants, his bookshop, was now strained and hollow. ‘innocents died screaming. honey ask meeeeeee, i should know.’

‘I- sli- slithered here from- from eden…’ he needed another drink.

 _Just to hide outside your door_. a familiar voice finished the song. Usually so confident, so sharp, so sure, Crowley's voice trembled slightly as he sang for him, the first time he’d done so in a long time. He smiled as Aziraphale looked up from the table.

His outline shimmered as the bartender left and he stayed where he was. In the harsh light of the streetlights, he seemed almost ghostly.

Nhhh. aziraphale shook his head. He’d had too much to drink.

_Aziraphale? AZIRAPHALE!_

Ghost-Crowley was still standing there. ‘Nhhhh. You’re not. You’re not…’ aziraphale giggled wetly, his face hot and throat burning from the alcohol. ‘You’re not real. Go away.’

_Come on, you’re better than that._

Ghost-Crowley shook him gently. Or, as much as one who’d been recently discorporated could shake a person.

‘You’re cold.’

_I know. I’m dead._

‘Not just dead.’ Aziraphale reached for another bottle. More precisely, he miracled one into existence. ‘you’re really- really dead. I shouldn’t have given you that holy water.’

 _No, i’m not, angel. What made you think that?_ Crowley said, peering anxiously into his face.

Somewhere in the messy bookshop of his mind, Aziraphale saw it all over again. The small pile of clothes. The acrid smell of burning plastic. The puddle of holy water, shining in a way water should not.

The angel shrugged. ‘Give me a sec- i’m going- going to sober up. N’can’t deal with this when i’m drunk.’ He’d sober up, the weird-ghost-figment-of-his-imagination-crowley would be gone, and he would… still have armageddon to deal with.

Maybe it would be better to stay drunk? No. He did have Armageddon to deal with. He snapped his fingers, and immediately everything came into sharp focus, like how a severely shortsighted person puts on glasses. The bottles of wine behind the counter. The fluoruscent lights. The book to his left.

Crowley. He was still there. Shimmering a little less, but still there.

‘Wait. Crowley? My dear boy, you’re really here?’

 _Yeah. hi, angel. I’m dead, sorry about that, never done this before-_ the demon rested his hands on the table, a few inches away from the angel’s. _Right. Okay. can you hear me?_

‘Of course I can hear you!’

_Ah, great. ‘Cause a few seconds ago you were pretending you couldn’t. Anyway-_

Aziraphale was dimly aware of his cheeks hurting. If he’d been a little more sober, he’d have realised he was smiling from ear to ear. He was also dimly aware of his clenched fists. He was feeling a wide span of emotions, some too ineffable that only angels could feel that way, and some so crushing only demons could have felt them.

_And that’s it. Angel? Angel, did you get that?_

‘No, I- for Heaven’s sake, Crowley, where have you been? Have you any idea how upset I was?’

Behind him, was a splintering sound. A glass cup had just cracked, its contents leaking slowly onto the floor.

A spasm crossed the demon’s face. He wished, more than ever, that he had his glasses on- aziraphale won’t be able to see his eyes, at least.

_I’m sorry, aziraphale, but it’s really important that i tell you something now, about the end of the world. I’ll explain to you, later, all right?_

His ghostly hand reached out, stopping just shy of his cheek. For the angel had flinched.

Aziraphale’s gaze was unreadable. Perhaps it was the slight vein working in his neck, the darkening sky, once bright, then dark, like a flipping switch was controlling the weather, the rhododendron bushes outside rapidly growing, blooming, wilting and dying at once, how his eyes were now red instead of blue; Crowley, for once, had no idea how he was feeling. For once, Crowley was terrified. Of Aziraphale.

He nodded. Crowley saw the sky outside. It was now blue.

 _I’ve made a massive mess. So, uh,_ Crowley looked at anywhere but the silent void which was the silent angel. _How did your impromptu meeting with the ‘higher authority’ go?_

There was a shift in the air. He glanced up at Aziraphale, and saw him fidgeting slightly with his bowtie, a gesture he had seen many times before. He did that when he was anxious.

This human gesture seemed to indicate that Aziraphale, was, maybe, a bit more human. The demon looked up into the angel’s face, and saw with relief his eyes change slowly back to blue.

And Crowley saw Aziraphale's beige coat, stained with filthy ashes. He saw his slightly singed shirt, and… Crowley’s throat throbbed- his arms, covered in scars of several cuts and burns, while miracled away, still left traces of blood behind..

And he realised: Aziraphale would run through a burning building to save him.

‘not quite as well as i hoped, i’m afraid. And, something unfortunate happened.’ he exhaled.  
‘I lost someone… someone i’d been in love with for a long time.’

If Crowley could breathe, he would have stopped right there and then.

Aziraphale’s face shone. Crowley longed to touch his face, to love him in ways their sides would never have approved of, to take all his pain away and love him more than humanity itself… deep down below, he knew many things that Aziraphale did not, denied, refused, rebelled against. A demon and an angel could not love each other.

For so long he had hoped for a century that understood him. A decade, a year, a day, even a minute… where the universe was kinder to him. Both to him, and Aziraphale.

And yet, here they were. In a dusty bar, at the end of the world, Aziraphale drinking solidly for several hours instead of he.

He really needed a drink. Getting discorporated and having your entire flat destroyed in a fire had really taken a toll on him.

_That took you a long time to admit._

The rhodendron bushes outside were blooming larger than Crowley had ever seen. Aziraphale smiled, a ghost of the joy that had once been.

‘I know, and I’m so sorry.’

There was a short silence, punctuated by the laughs of the couple sitting a few feet away from them.

‘Remember the girl who left the book behind? In your Bentley?’ The angel broke the silence, shifting slightly in his seat, now looking anywhere but at Crowley.

The angel held up a book none other than the ‘Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.’ Crowley hadn’t noticed it before. His eyes shone as he spoke, ‘I know where the Antichrist is! His address, name, everything...i worked it all out!’

The demon brightened. He was so clever. _s’great!_

‘Look, wherever you are, i’ll come to you! Where-’ the angel frowned, as though he was pondering the physics of discorporation which allowed ethereal beings to function as ghosts. ‘Where are you?’

_I’ve no bloody idea, angel. Never done this before._

‘Huh. Well, anyway, Crowley, you have to get to Tadfield air-base!’

What? Why?

‘That’s where the world’s going to end! In…’ Aziraphale squinted at the clock behind him. ‘About… two hours, i think.’

Crowley sighed and his figure shimmered a little less. _Right then, i’ll just have to nick someone’s body._  
 _Shame I can’t possess yours!_

Aziraphale turned slightly pink and tried to fight back a smile. He failed miserably. ‘No- an angel and a demon! I’ll probably explode.’

 _yeah._ Aziraphale could almost hear him blushing.

So- i’d meet you at Tadfield!

‘Yes, you’d better get a wiggle-on, dear boy!’ Aziraphale smiled brightly, determined to repress that odd emotion. He hadn’t felt it in quite some time.

 _What?_ Crowley was shimmering even less and less. He was getting harder and harder to make out.

‘Tadfield! Airbase!’

I heard that, with a ‘wiggle-on’? Aziraphale saw the last trace of Crowley’s bemused face, before he disappeared completely.

Aziraphale felt an odd tingling in his back. Oh no, not now, not now- not now!

The sky turned dark. The moon had eclipsed the sun, for the first time in three hundred years, nearly twenty years ahead of schedule, confused scientists noted. Meanwhile, a thunderstorm raged through half of England.

In the burnt remains of Crowley’s flat, with only the lonely remains of a demon for company, a tiny, green shoot grew from the blackened soil littering the floor.

\-------------

Newt hugged Anathema, screaming over the wind and rain: “ANATHEMA!”

“YES?” the terrified witch looked up at him, hugging him harder than ever.

“WHAT HAVEN’T YOU DONE?”

Anathema was, temporarily, at a loss for words. What had she done?

She’d followed Agnes’ prophecies all her life, searching for meaning, never questioning. Everything she did, she did from the book.

The book spoke the total and absolute truth, promised her everything that she wanted, and yet those prophecies had stolen her entire life from her.

The world was ending, her life could end in a matter of minutes, and she had nothing to show for it.

Anathema buried her face in Newt’s coat as, miles away, War’s eyes gleamed, feeling loss; loss she had not felt for a long time.


	4. witches and stitches

Madame Tracy tipped some sprouts into a pot of boiling water, idly humming to herself. It was a lovely day for a psychic appointment.

Madam Tracy had always thought that the most important things to ensure a successful psychic visit were:

Brussel sprouts boiling in the kitchen. There was nothing quite as comforting in english occultism as the familiar scent of sprouts cooking in the next room.  
A fair amount of hemming, hawing and sometimes, when she was really having a bad day, some yelling, during her ‘visits to beyond the veil’. This was much more dramatic and believable.  
Bad weather, such as rain. It created,.. what was the word? Ambulance.

While Madame Tracy was by many yardsticks quite stupid, she was extremely good at acting. Her visitors often left more mystified and with much less money than before, and they would always come back for more.

She glanced over at the small clock by the kitchen wall, and saw it was three to five. Her visitors would be arriving soon.

Getting out her tarot cards from the small drawer beneath her sink, she heard Sergeant Shadwell stomp up the staircase to his flat. He usually came up the stairs like he hated every single one of them; today was no exception.

The so-called ‘psychic’ straightened her clothes, checked her makeup, and popped out of the door, saying to the mackintosh-clad sergeant cheerily: ‘Mr Shadwell! Would you like a cup of tea?’

And to which, followed the usual response: ‘Away wi’ ye, jezebel! Hoor of Babylon! I will not drink the liquor of ethels!’ as he pushed open the door to his flat, but would grudgingly accept the tea anyway. Madame Tracy made better tea than Shadwell cared to admit. 

\------------

Aziraphale had once taken a driving test, back in the 1890s. He was rather envious of Crowley, who owned a beautiful black Bentley that he could drive amazingly well, and wanted to do the same.

Within a minute of getting into the car, he crashed it into a tree.

He never tried again.

\-----------

Crowley had been extremely clear on what would happen if Aziraphale crashed his Bentley. Well, Aziraphale thought as he slid into the driver’s seat, grinning maniacally- if that does happen, it’s not like he can do anything about it.

Aziraphale had to get to the Tadfield Airbase in an hour and he didn’t see another possible alternative mode of transport. Besides, if the world really ended and everything on Earth was wiped out, he wanted the Bentley to be the last material thing that he used. 

He fingered the steering wheel nervously, searching for the clutch. Was it the right, or...?

The car shuddered, rear-ending the car behind it. 

The angel sighed and pushed the other pedal, slowly easing the car out of the car park… beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as he slowly navigated around the vehicles.

Driving was so hard. How did Crowley do it?

The car didn’t have a GPS, but Aziraphale was an angel who had lived in England for almost two centuries. Despite never travelling much he was bound to know things.

‘Heigh Ho,’ said A.Z. Fell, as he drove away to the end of the world.

\------------

Shadwell turned on the lights in his dingy apartment. He whistled as he took off his mackintosh and shoes, before rummaging through the kitchen to find a tin of condensed milk.

As he sipped, his gaze fell on the scorched map, where a pin had burned and shot out from it an hour before-

SHIT! NEWT! 

A thunderous bellow came from the next room. Shadwell felt the room shake-the lights in his apartment flickered, as he tried to regain his balance.

‘That jezebel’s in trouble!’ Newt forgotten, Shadwell quickly opened the box containing the Thundergun of Sir Get-Them-Before-They-Get-You Witchfinder Major. He gazed reverently at it- aye, it had brought the end of many witches- the thought warmed his heart as he charged into battle next door.

\-----------

Madame Tracy turned off all the lights, lighting some candles. It was more dramatic, she thought, though they did make quite a mess.

The three people at her sitting, were: Mrs Ormerod, large with a jaw like a brick and a personality as winning as one; Mr Scroggie, thin and pallid, with colourless, bulging eyes; and Miss Julia Petley, who looked like the human personification of a magpie, if the magpie wore a lot of hand-beaten jewellry and green eyeshadow.

‘Well?’ Mrs Ormerod sneered, gripping her handbag like a shotgun. ‘I want to speak to my Ron!’ Madame Tracy specialised in communicating with dead loved ones ‘beyond the veil’, and after almost three months of having appointments with Mrs Ormerod, she was beginning to wish she’d been more selective of who could make visits. 

  
Madame Tracy clucked her tongue, tuttering. “Yes, but i’ll need donations…’ the three people pulled out some money each, handing them to her. She smiled and sat down at the table.

There was an important trick to occultism that was vital to faking psychic-ness. You had to pause for exactly the right amount of time- long enough so that people felt they were getting their money’s worth, and just short enough that people were still held in suspense. And that was what she did, as she linked hands with Mr Scroggie and Mrs Ormerod to her left and right, and instructed them to do the same with Ms Petley.

A few moments passed. Madame Tracy allowed her mind to wander, as they sat in calculated silence. 

‘OOH!’ She raised her head slowly, contorting her face- ‘ooOOOOOH…’

‘Nothing to worry about-’ Mrs Ormerod hissed to Miss Julia on her left, ‘she’s just going to the other side of the veil.’ 

Rather irritated at being upstaged by Mrs Ormerod, she let out a low moan, followed by a yelp and a shudder… and thrilled in a shrill, high voice: ‘are- are you there, my spirit guide?’

‘Yes. It me,’ she replied in a dark brown voice. Madame Tracy was rather enjoying this. Mr Scroggie and Miss Julia sat in enraptured silence as they stared at her; she could feel Mrs Ormerod jiggling her leg under the table in impatience. ‘How-’

‘Oh, are you done yet?’ A shrill voice interrupted her, derailing her train of thought. ‘I want to speak to my Ron!’ 

Madame Tracy bit back her growing annoyance. ‘Excuse me I require absolute silence- ooOOOH!’

She was filled with an odd, strange sensation; it somehow made her feel very warm and very cold at the same time. Her fingers tingled slightly, words that were not hers poured from her mouth as the house shook. Why was it raining again?

‘MADAME TRACY!’ Miss Julia squawked, ‘are you all right?’

‘Don’t worry, this happens all the time-’ the brick-human scoffed- ‘NO! THIS IS REAL!’ Madame Tracy squeaked, squeezing their hands extremely tightly- and suddenly, the feeling left.

She still felt rather odd. _Hi_ , a voice, sharp and male, said through her, none other than A.J. Crowley.

Miss Julia and Mr Scroggie stared at each other. 

‘Ron? Is that you?’

_What the heaven are you talking about? This isn’t Ron._

‘Well-’ Mrs Ormerod puffed her chest out, ‘I want to speak to my Ron! Short, balding on the top- can you put me through, please?’

 _Alright, woman_ \- the voice sounded amused. _I think there’s a spirit here that matches the description. Make it quick, I'm trying to stop Armegeddon._

Madame Tracy vaguely recognised the voice as the one she’d heard over the telephone a day ago; why was he now speaking through her?

Lightning flashed outside. 

Madame Tracy now had a new voice. ‘Buh-buh-beryl?’

‘Ron?’ Mrs Ormerod said, surprised. (Beryl was Mrs Ormerod’s first name.” Before this, Ron had always sounded more like Madame Tracy.

Madame Tracy stuttered, ‘Buh-buh-beryl, I need to tell you something-’

‘Right, so I went to Anne’s wedding this weekend- that’s our niece,’ Mrs Ormerod clarified to a baffled Mr Scroggie and an annoyed Miss Julia- ‘and they were serving, wait till you hear this, Ron-’ 

‘Buh-buh-Beryl! I-’

‘Now just a minute, Ron, I'm getting to the good bit! They were serving kimchi, for heaven’s sake. And i held the plate up, and said, ‘What, you expect me to eat this?’ and i-’

‘BERYL!’ thunder crashed louder than ever outside, as Madame Tracy shuddered. ‘YOU NEVER LET ME GET A WORD IN THE WHOLE TIME WE WERE MARRIED! AND NOW, I HAVE ONE-’ Madame Tracy’s chest heaved, ‘LAST’ the voice grew louder- ‘WORD TO SAY TO YOU!’

‘Ron, remember your heart condition!’ squeaked Mrs Ormerod. 

‘I DON’T HAVE A HEART ANY MORE!’ Madame Tracy bellowed and laughed uproariously. ‘AND- BERYL-’

‘Y-yes, Ron?’  
‘SHUUUUUUUUUUUT-’ the voice screamed- Madame Tracy stood up, towering over Mrs Ormerod- ‘UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!’ as it rained harder than ever outside. Mrs Ormerod screamed, Miss Petley screeched, and Mr Scroggie sat in mute horror at the scene.

Madame Tracy halted, and silence filled the shaken room and its terrified inhabitants. The thunder stopped, and the sky was bright again.

She took a deep breath. In- she counted to five… and out. 

‘Out!’ the male voice, marginally deeper than hers, said firmly. 

Miss Julia stood hurriedly, eyes wide open, Mr Scroggie enthusiastically pressed a few more ten-dollar bills into Madame Tracy’s hand, saying, ‘Amazing show, very entertaining!’ while Mrs Ormerod glowered at her, saying, ‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Tracy!’ slamming the door behind all three of them.

She sighed. Blowing out the candles, she saw someone else in a mirror by the wall. Madame Tracy had, in spite of herself, hoped that the person possessing her was, perhaps, handsome. And tall. 

A.J Crowley peered at her through the mirror, and gave her a little wave.

_Hi, Madame Tracy, sorry ‘bout the mess and all, it’s quite urgent that i borrow a body._

He had good cheekbones. He wore a black suit, with an odd tie, and looked oddly like the Tenth Doctor in Doctor Who. He smiled with the corner of his mouth, and had… snake eyes?

Probably contacts.

‘Oh, not at all, dear,’ she blushed, turning away from the mirror. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

Crowley laughed. _Do you have any liquor?_

‘It’s too early in the afternoon!’ Madame Tracy tittered, pouring cups of tea for the both of them. Crowley sighed. _Two sugars, please._

\-----------

The door crashed open, revealing Seargant Shadwell with a massive gun the size of a guitar and the firing power of one.

‘Where is he? I’ll have ya, ye spawn of hell!’ he squawked, waving the thundergun around and looking for the threat. Oddly, there was no damage at all to the furniture, no sign at all that there had been a screaming match in the room next door…

Two voices floated from the kitchen. ‘So how exactly are we to go about this?’ _Dear lady, it would seem that we will have to be very flexible in this arrangement._

The bastard with the dark glasses! Shadwell ran into the kitchen, bellowing: ‘I’LL HAVE YE, YE FLASH BASTARD!’ brandishing his gun, he saw only Madame Tracy… with two cups of tea?

She yelped and turned around, finding an enraged witchfinder in her kitchen, she said disapprovingly: ‘Mr Shadwell! What are you talking about?’

‘I heard him in here! That bastard, making lewd suggestions…’

Crowley straightened up, and said smugly through madame tracy: _not just a flash bastard, Seargeant Shadwell, the flash bastard._

He gasped. With a trembling hand, he held up the thundergun, and, slowly advancing, he cried out: ‘you know what this gun is? It’s the thundergun of Sir Get-them-before-they-get-you Witchfinder major! It can blast yer to kingdom come!’

‘That’s the problem, Mr Shadwell,’ Madame Tracy said thoughtfully, pulling out a chair for him. ‘kingdom come. It’s going to. Mr Crowley has just been explaining all of it. Why don’t you sit down and have a cup of tea with us?’

‘I’d rather starve than eat sup’ with ye, ye jezebel!’

Crowley sniggered slightly. Madame Tracy smiled at him. ‘You old silly,’.

Shadwell could have taken anything else. But not that.

He sat down, feeling slightly sheepish. ‘Nine sugars,’ he mumbled. ‘And a tin of condensed milk.’

‘Right on, dear.’

\-----------

The phone rang, its shrill tone piercing the still air.

Gabriel grabbed it. ‘Hello?’ Checking his watch, he saw there was only half an hour left till Armegeddon. He had better make it quick.

The voice, riddled with static and interference, buzzed: ‘gabriel, it’zzzz me.’

‘Ah.’ Gabriel sighed. ‘Hopefully it’ll go alright later.’ 

\-----------

Gabriel and Beelzebub were friends. He had once known her in Heaven, now he was just working on the upper floor while she resided in the dingy basement. They often called to gossip and help each other out with paperwork.

They were both of angel stock, meaning that they were both cold, and often unkind, and were very intimidating bosses. However, over the course of many years overseeing and orchestrating the worst and very occasionally best in humanity, they had begun to develop a slight sympathy, or more accurately, pity for humans.

The world was a terrible place, they both agreed. Wouldn’t it be better for the humans, and for them, if it all ended? Besides, they’d have the chance to start it all over again, an Earth 2.0, where humans behaved properly, like they should.

It was all part of the Divine Plan. A long, confusing one, but nevertheless a divine one.

\-----------

At the other end of the line, Beelzebub smirked. ‘We will win, of course.’

‘You don’t know that,’ he said coyly. ‘Good will always triumph over evil. Evil contains the seeds of its own destruction; no matter how well-planned, how watertight a nefarious plan may be, it will backfire, and flounder on the rocks of iniquity, and-’

‘For my money,-’ static crackled- ‘one of them might mezzzz it up. That bastard snake. Losing the antichrist on the day before Armegeddon, then losing his body on the day of the end of the world.’

‘At least we found him!’

‘How long d’you think it’d take for either of them to screw up again?’

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘They won’t,’ he said, ‘Aziraphale won’t. I will make sure of it.’

Beelzebub rolled her eyes. ‘Okay- see you later. We will crush you.’

The line clicked. 

He set the phone down, folding his arms and looking out to the blood-red sunset which bathed the walls in golden light. Had Beez tried coffee before? Perhaps he ought to send some down for her, after everything.

\---------


	5. it reeked of death

The line of cars stretched out, further than Aziraphale could make out. He grumbled, and squeezed his eyes shut- and with a flash of light, a clap of thunder, the line had shortened significantly. He drove a little further down the lane, and stopped.

Aziraphale had to drive through the M25, to get down to Tadfield. The M25 was one of Crowley’s better achievements; it was unnecessarily long and almost labyrinth-like, ensuring that the thousands of motorists and drivers trapped in it travelled in a zen-like, almost constant state of frustration and impatience. It had taken Crowley years of work, clever computer hacks, some selective bribery and sleepless nights, and, when all else had failed, strategic shifting of several building poles. When he saw the first traffic jam that had lasted for days during the M25’s second day of opening, he had the lovely feeling of a bad job well done.

Now, the M25 was a burning ring of fire surrounding London, enclosing everyone inside.

Aziraphale was feeling anything but lovely at that point. While he was quite miffed at Crowley’s antics, like the time he tied up every working telephone line in London a few years back, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of grudging pride.

Perhaps one day he’d look back at today and laugh. But the end was nigh, in about an hour’s time, and it rather shortened the odds of having a ‘one day’ to begin with.

Aziraphale sighed, shielding his eyes from the blazing flames blotting out the sky. The cars cast long shadows on the dusty street. _This must be why Crowley wears sunglasses,_ the angel reflected, thumbing through Agnes’ prophecies as around him, the cacophony of honks and yells grew louder…

And there was a twinge, as the air changed and shifted- and where there was nothing in the passenger seat next to Aziraphale, now sat the Archangel Gabriel. 

Aziraphale turned instinctively to his right, and immediately his expression changed: before it was slightly miffed but otherwise hopeful, now it was filled with barely hidden fear, eyes widening in shock; he closed the book hurriedly.

He gulped, and said, his voice quivering: ‘hi, Gabriel! H-how are you?’

Gabriel’s amethyst eyes flicked coldly over to the panicked angel. 

‘You won’t get there in time.’ his voice, oiled with contempt and hate, seemed to echo in the still car. 

And suddenly, a switch seemed to flip in Aziraphale. He looked over to the sneering archangel.

What the hell.

He turned the steering wheel abruptly, sending the car skidding off to the left.

‘W-what are you doing?’ Gabriel grabbed the bottom of his seat as the car thundered down the empty carpool lane, which had miraculously become devoid of all vehicles.

For once, Aziraphale was proud of his abysmal driving skills; the car skidded and wheezed on the tarmac as the engine screamed, sending the Archangel next to him screaming as well, as the angel drove straight into the path of the mounting flames.

‘AZIRAPHALE! STOP!’ Gabriel screeched, watching the wall of fire draw closer and closer. ‘YOU’LL DISCORPORATE US BOTH!’

‘IF YOU’RE GOING TO GO-’ Aziraphale recounted briefly, what Crowley had said many times before- ‘THEN GO WITH STYLE!’ The angel laughed dementedly, pressing his foot down on the accelerator harder and harder, and the car, containing a maniac angel and a hysterical archangel, careened through a wall of flame onto melting, blazing tarmac. 

‘I HATE YOU!’ Gabriel shrieked, as he burned away, leaving the leather seat next to him blackened. Aziraphale screamed with laughter, as he pushed his way through the heat in the scorched Bentley. 

\-----------

Anathema stared into empty space, her eyes glassy.

An awful hour had passed, and the storm had stopped. Newt glanced over at her, as he moved some of the debris away; a quarter of the roof had crashed down into the second floor, and the broken glass littering the bed was not doing him any favours. 

He cleared his throat. ‘Uh, Anathema- are you alright?’

She nodded wordlessly, and handed him a card.

Newt read it. ‘So...what does this mean, exactly?’

‘It means,’ Anathema murmured, ‘that we have to get to Tadfield Airbase. Right now.’

Newt turned sharply to face her. ‘But! But how? We can’t just _break in._ They have _guns._ ’

Anathema’s smile was brittle; it crossed her face and was gone in an instant. ‘I’m sure,’ she said quietly, ‘Agnes would have told us if someone was going to get shot.’

Feeling shivers crawling down his spine, Newt thought it best not to argue. 

\----------

There’s a trick to witchfinding they don’t tell you: you must be absurdly frank, and brutally honest. There was no point to subtlety; seeing as witches were anything _but_ subtle, and would always shrink from any remotely aggressive act.

Shadwell pondered this endearingly as he sipped his tea; Crowley’s words brought him back to reality. _So, you see, guys, the end of the world- it’s just- no one wants the world to end. I mean, you agree, right, shad?_

The witchfinder nodded, slightly annoyed at being nicknamed ‘Shad’. ‘It’s Shadwell, _Sergeant_ Shadwell!’

 _Right you are, Shad. Anyway, we have to get going right now. Immediately. We have to reach Tadfield in-_ Madame Tracy glanced at the kitchen clock- _an hour._

Madame Tracy pursed her lips. ‘That’s almost twenty miles away, Crow!’

 _Crow?_ Shadwell thought, glowering jealously, setting his tea down.

_Yeah, yeah, but we’ll figure it out. Do you have a car?_

‘Even better!’ Madame Tracy scurried over to the kitchen cabinet, pulling out two motorcycle helmets, one an ugly shade of neon green, the other lurid pink. ‘I’ve got a bike!’

Crowley sounded amused, but his tone turned businesslike. _Right. Time to go._

Abandoning their tea, and pushing a disgruntled Sergeant Shadwell out the door, the unlikely trio set out for Tadfield on Madame Tracy’s rickety motorcycle. 

\--------

‘It’s going to be _amazing.’_ Adam smiled, his hollow gaze seizing and contorting his young, childish features, into something worse. Something eldritch.

Pepper, Wensleydale and Brian sat, and said nothing. Before them stood the lifeless husk of a small boy, their _friend_ , staggering under the weight of unimaginable power. Power he could wield thoughtlessly. Power that was not his.

Adam propped his head up on his left arm, idly swinging his legs. ‘We can have the world all to ourselves; we’d have real armies. An’ real cowboys and spaceships. And we could rule the world together!’

He stood up, surveying his friends, like they were loyal subjects and he the absolute king. ‘You, Pepper,’ he pointed a finger to her, and she recoiled, as though it was a white-hot poker, ‘can have Russia and China-’

‘And you, Brian, can have Europe and Africa.’ Brian stared at him, uncomprehending, all fear numbed and beaten hollow. 

‘And… Wensleydale… you can have America and Russia! And Dog’ll have Australia, given that he needs space to run about.’ He looked at the small dog trembling near his feet; he knew now, Dog was a hellhound.

He knelt down, and reassured the cowering dog: ‘and you could invite all your _friends_ to play with you! Wouldn’t that be fun?’ Dog whimpered. Deep in his diabolical canine mind, a part of himwished he hadn’t met Adam at all.

‘What bit are _you_ going to have, Adam?’

Pepper raised her head. The Antichrist turned slowly to face her.

‘What?’

‘We’ll all have the world to rule. But what about you?’ Pepper’s eyes met his for the first time.

Adam was, temporarily, at a loss for words. ‘Well, I-I suppose i’ll have Tadfield,’ he muttered, suddenly feeling very small under the stare of his three friends. ‘And Hogback Lane, and Norton-’

‘But it’s ours, too, Adam,’ Brian said softly. Wensleydale nodded. ‘We’ve got all the world we want, here, and we don’t want to rule the world.’

A loud, sullen silence filled the deserted plain, as the Antichrist stared at them. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

‘I don’t _need-’_ Adam spat- _‘any_ of you. Look, you’re all unfrozen now. You can go home.’ 

Wensleydale’s eyes, tinted red and swollen, looked at Brian, who looked over at Pepper.

Her face fell. ‘Goodbye, Adam,’ she murmured, and stood to leave. And the three children walked away, without a backwards glance.

‘Wait-no-’ this wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all. Adam tried to ignore the icy pit forming in the bottom of his stomach. ‘Come back!’ he pleaded, running behind them, or more accurately soaring.

They turned, terrified, and started to run. They ran, and ran, leaving the forest behind them, and entering a large open field. Dog yelped and skittered away, paws scratching dewy grass, as he tried to get as far away from his master as possible. 

‘Give me back my dog!’

Pepper halted and turned to face him. ‘He’s not _your_ dog,’ she snarled, her fists clenched, her eyes blazing, ‘he’s his own dog, and I don’t think he likes you!’ 

Brian grabbed her arm, and screamed, ‘COME ON, PEPPER!’ in his state of mounting terror. His heart thudded as he saw Adam’s face, torn and broken with menace and fury. 

Pepper ran.

And Adam knew. Adam heard, distantly, his barking dog, the pattering footsteps of his friends, their pulses beating rapidly like gunfire, he saw their retreating backs, the sky boiling above them…

Adam knew. The voices flooding his own head, drowning his rational thoughts, seemed to clear… the world was ending, but he couldn’t be the one to end it.

Not yet. Not now. Something snapped inside him, as he threw his head back, and screamed; an empty, guttural, hollow sound that echoed through Tadfield, a sound that no human could create. A sound that called. A sound that demanded to be heard. 

And he fell. Down, and down, and down… Adam didn’t know when he would stop.

\----------

‘How long till Tadfield?’

‘Fifteen minutes- ah, make a left.’

Newt and Anathema sat in silence, the witch holding the box of notecards in front of her as though it carried a contagious disease. The Wasabi swerved to the left fork, chugging its way down the empty lane.

In the distance, something howled.

‘You know-’ Newt blurted out, to break the uncomfortable silence, ‘you must be wondering why this car is called Dick Turpin.’ He immediately wished he hadn’t spoken. 

She looked at the passing trees. ‘Because wherever it goes, it holds up traffic?’

Astounded, he stared at Anathema, opened his mouth to say something, and couldn’t quite think of anything to say, so he shut his mouth again, and started grinning from ear to ear, and turned back to watch the road.

He could hear the smile in her voice as she said, drily, ‘it _was_ quite obvious, you know.’

And he fell in love with her just a little more.

\---------

Several miles ahead, four bikes thundered down a narrow lane. 

They slowed to a stop. War surveyed the military base, lip curled in disdain. ‘You’d think it would be more impressive, wouldn’t you?’

Pollution sniffed the air: there was a hint of gasoline, and… was that _plutonium?_ And dear Lord, _mercury._ They smiled as their bike leaked yet more oil, glistening on the tarmac. ‘It’s good enough for me.’

‘No farms-’ Famine’s back was arched on his slim black motorcycle; he relaxed and lay back, enjoying the sour smell of stale supplies - ‘no _food..._ ’

It reeked of death. 

\--------

Adam’s head pounded. He cracked open his eyelids, and saw Brian standing over him, holding a large baseball bat. Then Pepper and Wensleydale, peering at him.

He sat up. Dog rushed to him, pawing his hand.

‘I’m sorry, i wasn’t-’ he faltered- ‘i wasn’t thinking straight.’ 

The other three Them stared at each other, then back at Adam. They wore identical expressions of surprise, confusion, and in Dog’s case, just pure joy. Dog knew his master was back to normal.

Brian threw the bat down, and pounced at him, hugging him tighter than he’d ever hugged anyone before. 

Adam, startled, looked at Brian hugging him, then at Pepper, who looked relieved, and Wensleydale, his usually neatly gelled hair a mess, and pleased all the same.

His eyes welled with tears as he hugged Brian back fiercely, thinking, over and over again, that he would never do what he had just done, not to his only friends, never again. 

\---------

If anyone had been in a particular floor of heaven that day, they would have seen an infuriated archangel materialising, face-down, on the hard white floor; they would have seen him stomp off angrily to the body department, his clothes shimmering a ghostly white, and they would have seen him return, much more substantial than before.

Then disappear. Perhaps to the basement, where his best friend was.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, thanks for reading this, it means loads to me. hope you enjoyed it. ciao, angelo


End file.
